O DE S.

BOOK III.

O DE S.

BOOK III.

ODE I.

MONARCHS on earth their power extend,

Monarchs to Jove submissive bend,

And own the sovereign god,

With glorious triumph who subdu'd

The Titan race, gigantic brood!

And shakes whole nature with his nod.

When rival candidates contend,

And to the field of Mars descend,
To urge th' ambitious claim,
Some of illustrious birth are proud,
Some of their clients vassal crowd,
And some of virtue's fame.

Others the rural labor love,

And joy to plant the spreading grove,
The furrow'd glebe to turn;

Yet with impartial hand shall Fate

Both of the lowly and the great

Shake the capacious urn.

Behold the wretch, with conscious dread, In pointed vengeance o'er his head

Who views th' impending sword; Nor dainties force his pall'd desire, Nor chaunt of birds, nor vocal lyre To him can sleep afford;

Heart-soothing sleep, which not disdains The rural cot, and humble swains,

And shady river fair;

Or Tempe's ever-blooming spring,
Where zephyrs wave the balmy wing,
And fan the buxom air.

Who nature's frugal dictates hears,
He nor the raging ocean fears,
Nor stars of power malign,
Whether in gloomy storms they rise,
Or swift descending thro' the skies
With angry lustre shine;

Whether his vines be smit with hail,
Whether his promis'd harvests fail,
Perfidious to his toil;

Whether his drooping trees complain
Of angry winters, chilling rain,
Or stars, that burn the soil.

Not such the haughty lord, who lays
His deep foundations in the seas,

And scorns earth's narrow bound;
The fish affrighted feel their waves
Contracted by his numerous slaves,

Even in the vast profound.

High tho' his structures rise in air,

Threat'ning remorse, and black despair
This haughty lord shall find;

O'ertake his armed galley's speed,
And when he mounts the flying steed,
Sits gloomy care behind.

If purple, which the morn outshines,
Or marble from the Phrygian mines,
Tho' labor'd high with art,

If essence, breathing sweets divine,
Or flowing bowls of generous wine,
Ill soothe an anxious heart,

On columns, rais'd in modern style,
Why should I plan the lofty pile,
To rise with envied state?
Why, for a vain, superfluous store,
Which would encumber me the more,
Resign my Sabine seat?